


In Vain, Beloved Boy

by CheyenneXeno



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Classical References, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Sex, a brief history of the umbrella, all in one fic wow, also this is very much post epilogue, and sexy times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:40:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1377589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheyenneXeno/pseuds/CheyenneXeno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want you to realize that I don’t owe you anything, alright? I don’t have to give you peace, whatever the hell that means, but you’ve got me here, and there’s nowhere else for either of us to go, so ask. What do you want to know, Charles? What do you want from me?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Vain, Beloved Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Ovid's Metamorphoses and is referencing Narcissus, which makes sense because this fic is vaguely inspired by [this post](http://victorfrankendork.tumblr.com/post/80699867411/so-you-said-francischarles-reminds-you-of), which I wrote, so yeah.
> 
> I tried my hardest to keep Francis and Charles in character while still taking into account the fact that people can and do change, especially years after such a traumatic set of experiences, so just keep that in mind.

Francis had only been staying at the hotel for about three weeks. It had been a month and a half since his grandfather died, and only a month since Priscilla left him, taking most of his inheritance with her. She was smarter than she had seemed apparently. He didn’t mind so much, though. Sure, the hotel was dirty and cheap, and he was having trouble budgeting the little money he had, since he had never been used to doing that, but he was free. There was no one he had to impress any longer, no one he had to act for. It was a welcomed change after being an imitation of an honest, free being for nearly twenty-six years.

He thought that he might even be able to start looking for a job, but not quite yet. Soon, though, he promised himself. Francis had thought, very wrongly, that he wouldn’t be able to do this, that he wouldn’t be able to be alone, to get by. But he thought he was doing well enough, if spending the days going between a cheap hotel and a grimy bar was considered doing well. Even if most people wouldn’t consider that a success—he shuddered to even think of what Henry or the others would have said if they saw him here—he felt better about things than he had in years. Francis had barely any money, no permanent home, and no nearby friends, and yet he felt all right. Or at least he didn’t feel like dying anymore, which was a change. 

There was a lot of time to think about things when you have no obligations. Francis spent a lot of his time thinking about what had happened those years ago, thinking about how strange and unreal it had all been. Sometimes he had trouble convincing himself that he had even known any of them. There were times when he thought that maybe he was insane after all, that maybe he had made everything up, but then he would see some tall, enigmatic man smoking Lucky Strikes, or a woman with hair like honey and cold, marvelous eyes, and he would tell himself that they must have been real. They all seemed like ghosts, though, Henry, Camilla, Richard, Bunny, but most of all Charles. Always Charles. He could hardly understand how someone he had not seen in years managed to rule his thoughts so perfectly. It was funny, Francis had thought he loved him, but now he wasn’t so sure. He had liked him, definitely cared about him, but looking back he didn’t know if it was possible to love someone like Charles, a Narcissus with whiskey in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Maybe he had been mistaking his lust, his fascination with Charles’s beauty, with actual love. It seemed like an appropriate crime to him. He was still trying to figure that one out, but he had all the time in the world for thinking.

Francis sighed and looked toward the door. He could have sworn he heard a voice, but that didn’t make sense. He was alone. Shaking his head slightly, he undid his silk tie and threw it over the back of the chair without a thought. He didn’t know why he still bothered with the ties and the greatcoat, it was not as if that was an aesthetic he needed anymore. But old habits die hard, and the clothes made him feel like he was still an intellect instead of a man living alone in a hotel with no job and barely any money. 

He smoked a cigarette slowly and deeply as he undressed, thinking that perhaps tonight he would have a hot shower, take a few pills, and try to sleep through the night. He still had trouble sleeping; the dreams still came making restful sleep impossible. No sleep was better than the anxiety, though. If sleepless nights were what he had to deal with in the place of being unable to breath, feeling his chest constrict, wanting to run far, far away, then he would gladly take the tiredness that he felt constantly. He didn’t even really mind lying in bed for hours, feigning sleep for no one but himself. But he felt fine tonight; he was feeling optimistic. He thought that he might even get a few hours of sleep if he was lucky.

He went into the small, cramped bathroom and was about to turn on the water for a shower when there was a loud knock on his door. Francis froze, his heart immediately speeding up. Trying to think of who it could be, he realized that he had told no one where he was staying; there wasn’t really anyone to tell anyway. His curiosity was peaked, but not enough. He ignored the knock, staying in the bathroom, willing whoever it was to go away without a fuss, but not thirty seconds later there was another knock, louder this time, more insistent. Almost instantly, he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist, his curiosity winning him over easily.

Without a thought, he opened the door to his room, and was greeted by one of the last people he was expecting to see. And yet there he was, blond as ever, face untouched by time, always the Narcissus.

“Charles,” he breathed, his chest feeling uncomfortably tight suddenly. He had finally lost it. After years and years of trying to convince himself that he was alright, he had finally gone crazy, and now he really was hallucinating. Francis stared at the vision in front of him; he was even more handsome than he remembered and he wondered if his mind was changing details, forgetting the bad things in favor of this memory. Maybe he was dying, and the angel who had come to take him was a beautiful imitation of Charles. It couldn’t be, though. Francis was certain that he wouldn’t be going to heaven if there was one.

“Glad to see you’re still around. I was worried that you’d checked into a shitty hotel to do the honorable deed,” Charles said, raising a perfect eyebrow as if he was still skeptical of his motives for being in such a grimy place.

An angel wouldn’t have said something like that. So here he was after years without a single word. It wasn’t so hard to believe, it almost seemed normal to him. Francis didn’t ask how he had found him. He didn’t even correct him; tell him that he wasn’t there to try to give himself over to the great sleep again. It didn’t matter. Charles was here, standing in front of him, looking the same as ever in his pristine white shirt and grey trousers.

“Are you going to ask me in or am I going to have to stand in the hallway while you stare at me, half naked, _Francis_?” he asked, putting an almost mocking emphasis on his name. He ignored it. Charles’s tone, so familiar, so welcomed even in his mocking, made it feel like they had just seen each other yesterday. His thoughts were racing too fast for him to ask any of the thousands of questions he had. 

“Come in, Charles,” he said, moving to let him through the doorway. The name felt strange on his lips, but not in a bad way. Something about it felt right, more so now than it had before.

“This place is a shithole,” Charles said stepping into the hotel room, taking off his overcoat and letting it fall to the ground without a care.

Something about the phrase took Francis out of his trance. He closed the door, almost slamming it. For a moment Francis considered reminding him that he presumably didn’t even _have_ a shithole to stay in at the moment, so he shouldn’t be one to talk, but they had only just been reunited after years of no contact, and he thought it best not to make Charles angry just yet. That part would come later, most likely. Instead, he settled for, “ _Aeì koloiòs parà koloiôi hizánei_.”

“How quaint, it’s as if I’m talking to Henry again,” Charles muttered with a humorless laugh, wandering through the room, making sure to touch everything he could get his hands on; the silk tie Francis had thrown across the chair, the greatcoat hanging on the hook near the door, and the umbrella leaning against the dresser. Francis was close to telling him to stop touching his things, stop _tainting_ everything he owned, but he couldn’t find the words, not yet. Charles paused by the umbrella. “ _Katá foní ki o gáidaros._ This is Henry’s, isn’t it?” Francis only nodded in reply, waiting to see what his reaction would be before speaking. “How the hell did you get this?”

“It was easy enough. No one really seemed to care that much once he was gone. I was the only one of us at his funeral. Everyone just went along their own way without a thought. I know it’s too sentimental, but I wanted something for his ghost, for his memory. Kind of like how you and Camilla kept Bunny’s scarf even after…so I took his umbrella. It’s not as if he needed it anymore anyway,” Francis explained with a shrug, keeping his voice as detached as he could. He had never been quite as good at seeming cold as Henry or Charles though.

“I never expected to see this again,” he said picking the umbrella up and twirling it around a few times. “Kind of makes you feel like Henry’s going to walk through the door right now and start soliloquizing about how the Greeks invented the umbrella or something.”

Francis had heard a similar lecture from Henry when they first met, before Charles or Camilla or Richard. Umbrella, from the Latin words _umbella_ being a flat-topped flower and _umbra_ meaning shadow, from the Greek _ómbros_. Francis remembered Henry telling him that no one knows where exactly the umbrella was invented, but it was most likely in Ancient China, not Greece. But Francis kept all of that to himself. His chest felt tight, and he was having trouble breathing. He couldn’t afford that many words at the moment, not just now with Charles standing in front of him, just as handsome as ever, still an angel in white. “Yeah, it does,” he managed, thinking that if Charles could just walk through the door completely out of nowhere, he wouldn’t have been surprise if Henry did as well. “Listen, do you want something to drink, tea, coffee?” he asked, knowing the answer even before the words formed on Charles’s perfect, pink lips.

“Something stronger, if you have it,” he said.

“Fallen off the wagon then, I see,” Francis said to himself, turning his back on Charles and going to the dresser to fetch the already opened bottle of Moscato. He couldn’t remember buying it, yet alone the reason he would have chosen something so cheap. He poured two glasses into the hotel room’s glassware. He was hit with a pang of nostalgia for proper wine glasses. It had been too long since anything in his life was proper. He turned back to Charles, who had made himself at home on the edge of Francis’s haphazardly made bed. Francis handed him one of the glasses, “It’s not much, but it will the job.”

“Anything is better than nothing,” Charles said sniffing his glass as if he actually recalled the lesson on wines that Henry had given them years and years ago. Francis wasn’t even sure he remembered much of anything from that particular pedagogy, except something about smelling and tasting things Bunny had insisted were impossible to smell, like minerals and grass. Francis did remember the way Charles had rolled up his sleeves, the veins so clear beneath skin as white as marble. He did remember how Charles kept glancing back at him over his shoulder, thinking he was being discreet. His hair had been almost curly that day from the humidity, and they hadn’t been together for the first time yet. It was a nice day, the sort of day when nothing of interest happens.

“ _In vino veritas_ , I suppose,” Francis said, watching Charles down his glass in one go. He took a sip, and realized it was a mistake. The wine was too sweet, sweeter than he remembered, and he could already tell that it wouldn’t sit so easily on his stomach. Nothing really seemed to sit right in his stomach when Charles was around. He leaned back against the dresser.

 Charles finished his glass with a cringe. “If there’s truth in that wine, I’m not sure what it is. Much too fruity, just like you.”

There was a silence. They both looked at each other, waiting for the other to speak. He thought he should have felt more uncomfortable than he was, standing there half naked, Charles sitting on his bed after no word from him for _years_ , Charles, sitting there on his bed staring at his chest openly and calling _him_ the fruity one. Francis thought he might as well have said what he wanted. It would have made things easier. 

Francis finally broke the silence, “Is that why you came? To talk about how fruity I am?” His words came out harsher than he had meant them to sound, but Charles didn’t seem to mind.

“No,” he said, fingers dancing around the rim of his empty glass. Francis waited for him to go on, but he didn’t.

“Why are you here then?” he asked, setting his own glass down on the dresser. He thought he was doing a fine enough job at keeping himself detached, but looking at Charles was a danger. Francis turned to go toward the bathroom to go start the shower for himself. 

“I needed to see you again,” Charles said simply, stopping Francis in his place. His voice sounded strangely far away. Francis had heard him talk like this before. His words were a little too sweet to be true, a little too sincere for someone like Charles. And yet Francis always fell for it. He didn’t know why.

He turned back to Charles, who had risen from the bed, standing there his eyes wide; he looked deceivingly innocent. Francis shook his head and went into the bathroom.

“Do you need money?” he called to Charles, turning the hot water knob all the way to the right. Having Charles in the room made him feel dirty. And the only way to be clean was to burn the filth off. He didn’t even bother checking the water’s temperature before going back into the room. Charles was still standing where he had left him. “Is that why you’re here? Money. Because I can’t give it to you, as much as I wish that I could. Why don’t you ask Camilla or something, surely she can help you out,” he suggested, even though he knew that Camilla had essentially cut all ties with Charles years ago.

“I’m not here to ask for your money,” Charles said, reaching over and grabbing the bottle of Moscato. He poured himself another generous glass. He ran a hand through his already wild hair before swallowing the wine in three gulps, setting the glass down on the dresser loudly. “And it doesn’t really look as though you have much at the moment, so that should be a relief to you.”

“What are you here for then?” Francis asked raising his eyebrows, ignoring the jab. He made certain to keep his distance from Charles. They had played similar games in the past and he knew how it ended just as well as Charles did. And he didn’t want that anymore.

“Can’t someone pay their old friend a visit without having some other motive? Maybe I really did just want to see you again, Francis, have you considered that? Have you thought that maybe it is possible for someone to want to see you, or do you still think the worst of everything?” Charles said irritably. Francis regretted his tone instantly. An angry, tipsy Charles was not what he wanted on his hands. And the first half of his reasoning was so astounding to Francis that he barely registered the insult that Charles had thrown in for good measure, to keep himself seeming uncaring. He was sorely tempted to believe Charles’s words. He wanted to believe them, even now.

“Yes, of course. Sure they can…” he said trailing off.

“Alright, good,” Charles said. He seemed to deflate, all of the tension in his shoulders that Francis somehow didn’t notice falling away.

“So, how have you been?” he asked awkwardly. “Not with that older woman anymore?” Even now he was unable to keep himself from giving back some of the venom that had been directed towards him.

Charles gave him a look that could have cut through glass. Francis wondered how he managed to look so glorious even with the scowl on his face. “It seems like I’ve been just as well as you have. No more wife, I see,” Charles said coldly, still standing there in the center of the room.

Francis let out a frustrated sigh. He could not continue to stand there, half naked, pretending that this was normal, that he had expected to see Charles now, of all times, after such a long time without him, after such a long time of separating himself from whatever there was there, after finally realizing that Richard was right about some things.

“What are you looking for here, Charles?” he asked, his tone changing instantly. He felt anger mixing with the too sweet wine; he felt hot and sick even looking at Charles. “Because there must be something you want. You show up here, out of nowhere, somehow you’ve found where I’m staying even though _no one_ is meant to know. You haven’t spoken to me in years, I’ve only heard the most vague things from Camilla about you, and even that information stopped coming a while ago. And yet _here you are_. I would love to sit here and act as if this is normal, but I can’t. I’ve gotten rather worse at lying since college, you see, but maybe you’re still just as good at acting?”

Charles bit his lip, a frown distorting his face. He turned his back to Francis, and he knew what was coming, the anger, the accusations. He thought he was prepared for them, though. It used to affect him, but this time would be different, he had been preparing for years this time. Charles suddenly turned back around, one hand in something that resembled a claw, and for a moment Francis thought he was going to grab the glass from the dresser and throw it at him, but he didn’t. He balled his hand in a fist and came towards Francis, stopping before they were too close. “There are things, Francis,” Charles said, and he hated the way he said his name, as if it was a curse, something hateful in his mouth, he wished for the days he had jokingly called him _François_ , “Things that I find myself wondering still. Things that never really ended. Things that I want to know. Things that I _need_ to know if I’m going to have any sort of peace.”

“I want you to realize that I don’t owe you anything, alright? I don’t have to give you peace, whatever the hell that means, but you’ve got me here, and there’s nowhere else for either of us to go, so ask. What do you want to know, Charles? What do you want from me?” he said. Half of him worried about making him angrier, pushing him over the edge, but the other half was angry at _him._ This wasn’t fair, none of it was fair, and he knew already what was coming. It was always the same with Charles, even now, and he again he was conflicted. He was dreading what was coming, and yet he wouldn’t do anything to stop it; maybe he needed it.

Charles stepped toward him, slowly forcing Francis to back up until he was flush against the wall, Charles so close that he could smell his cologne, the same cologne that he had used in college, the same cologne that _Francis_ had let him borrow after one of their trysts. They weren’t touching, and yet Francis swore that he could feel Charles’s fingertips on his shoulders, tracing the freckles, calling them his stars, before kissing them and kissing them over and over again quoting, _“Vous seul aura des étoiles comme personne n’en a-”._ But that was a long time ago, and Francis knew now that he was never meant to be the one to have the stars, none of them were.

Charles looked at him through heavy eyes, and he saw his anger waver for the briefest of seconds. His eyes flickered to Francis’s lips, and he seemed to remember what it had been like back then, if only for a moment. But it was proof enough for him. The moment was over as quickly as it had come. 

“Do you still love me?” he asked, an edge to his voice. The words sounded as if he was accusing Francis of a crime as dire as murder.

The question didn’t surprise him. He wasn’t sure if there was anything that could surprise him anymore after everything that they had done. He thought about lying to Charles. It was tempting standing there so close to his Narcissus once again, close enough to see the light freckles on his nose, the flecks of grey in his blue eyes. Despite the coldness of his tone, his eyes betrayed him. It never used to be like that. Or perhaps his selfishness used to be genuine. It wasn’t any longer, Francis could see that clearly. He could see that Charles was trying as hard to convince Francis as he was himself. But Francis was also close enough to see the bags under his eyes, to smell the whiskey on his breath mingling with Francis’s wine, nothing would ever change those things. For once he settled on the truth.

“I don’t I love you anymore,” he said quietly, forcing himself to look Charles in the eye. It was true, but still he could feel warm tears clinging to his eyelashes, threatening to fall. He thought that perhaps they were tears of mourning, finally, that he should scream and wail and tear his hair and claw his chest, if only to make Charles understand what his words meant.

“Good,” Charles said coldly. And yet his hand did not feel so cold on Francis’s cheek. He hesitated before he swiped the wetness from Francis’s eye gently, much too sweetly for the words that followed. “I never loved you.”

Francis let out a breathy, bitter laugh. “I know, you don’t have to say it,” he muttered, finally looking away from Charles. He didn’t need to hear anymore, it was over, but then, he supposed, it had never really began and there was no reason why now should be any different. Francis tried to move away from Charles, tried to escape his gaze, but Charles put his hands to the wall, trapping Francis between his arms. Charles was too close to him, his arms almost touching his bare shoulders. A chill ran through his body even thinking about the phantom touch. He could see the beads of sweat on Charles’s temples and wondered when it had gotten so hot in the room. Somewhere in the back of his mind the sound of running water in the bathroom registered and he realized that the shower was still going, waiting for him.

“I never loved you,” he repeated to spite him. If Francis hadn’t heard the slightest quiver in his voice he would have believed him, but now he was not so sure.

“I said you don’t need to say it again. I already know,” he said, anger flaring up. He tried again, in vain, to escape, but Charles grabbed his arms, forcing him back against the wall. Francis’s heart beat a frantic tattoo in his chest, and yet he was able to keep his voice from wavering. “What are you trying to get out of this, Charles? Did you want me to tell you that I love you so that you can feel a bit better about yourself? Did you come to remind me that you don’t love _anyone_ , but perhaps come to bed with me once more, just for posterity’s sake?”

“Something like that,” Charles admitted, his voice softer now, and yet he did not let go of Francis’s arms. His grip actually tightened, as if he was afraid that Francis would try to run again, but he had no plans for that. When Charles had waltzed into his room, back into his life like some ghost that could never truly move on from the past, like a memory in a white button down with nicotine stained fingers and whiskey breath, somewhere in his mind Francis already knew that he would let it happen again. Even if his words were true, even if he didn’t love him any longer, perhaps he wanted to have him one last time, like Charles, just for posterity’s sake. And he had a feeling that Charles wasn’t quite done with all of the things that he wanted to know. There was a moment of hesitation before Charles leaned forward slightly, before brushing his lips ever so lightly up Francis’s neck, leaving a trail of the most timid kisses, sending a shiver down his spine despite the heat. He knew that Charles would be able to feel his pulse, beating wildly, giving him away. “ _Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt_ ,” he muttered, breath tickling Francis’s ear.

“Virgil,” he said, letting his hand wander to Charles’s waist despite his better judgment, feeling the stark, cotton fabric beneath his fingertips. Cotton, nothing more than that. “ _There are tears for the world and mortality touches the mind_ , more or less _._ Well, look who’s trying to be Henry now. Hypocrite,” Francis breathed, angry that the words came out with no venom to them, angry that his voice betrayed him. He tried again, wanting Charles to understand that he knew exactly what he was trying to do. “ _Memores acti prudentes futuri_ ,” he said, tilting his head away from Charles.

Charles let out a frustrated grunt, and threw his head back. His hands, whether unconsciously or not, ran down Francis’s arms stopping on his thin wrists. “Oh, come on, Francis,” he muttered, closing his eyes.

“It’s true, though, we know what we’ve done and so we know what will be,” he said, pleased with the effect he was having on Charles. “ _Memores acti prudentes futuri_ ,” he repeated harshly, raising an eyebrow.

“Stop with the fucking Latin,” he said with sour laugh. Charles stared at Francis, the bitter smile falling from his face, replaced with confusion and he looked so young, just how Francis remembered he looked when they had first met, before anything had changed that look. He stared at him as if he was waiting for Francis to tell him what to do next, but quickly enough his face changed again, and he was the Charles they had known after Bunny’s funeral.

There was a second’s pause before he crushed his lips to Francis’s, his hands finally freeing his wrists in favor of clutching his bare waist, digging his fingernails into his skin as if he wanted to leave marks behind. At first Francis tried to push him off, pushing his shoulders away with all the force he could muster, refusing to open his mouth to Charles’s insistent tongue. But his struggles didn’t last long. He could feel his resolve melting away as Charles’s fingers moved down his sides, towards the top of his towel, which was already threatening to fall. His fingers started working at Charles’s buttons even as he started returning the kisses, almost enjoying the taste of bad wine and whiskey on his tongue.

It was not like it was in college. Then there had never really been a struggle for power; they had both known their places and there had been no reason to fight it. It had just been for fun, after all, nothing serious, and Charles had always been allowed to act as if he had forgotten what happened the next morning. But this time was different. Francis could feel the fight in the kiss, in the pressure of Charles’s hands on his skin, and he fought back, giving just as much as he was receiving.

Francis’s fingers were trembling, but he managed to unbutton Charles’s shirt, which he shrugged off, letting it fall haphazardly on the floor, only letting go of Francis for a second. As soon as the shirt hit the floor, Charles was back on him, hands running greedily over Francis’s chest, thigh forcing its way in between Francis’s legs, a little too rough to be kind, but Francis didn’t mind so much, if that was what Charles wanted, that was what he would get.

He let the hungry kisses continue for a few moments, savoring the familiar taste of Charles, allowing him to drive him back against the wall, letting Charles think that he was the one who was in control. But he broke away from the kiss and pushed Charles away from him with all of the force he could muster. For a moment, Charles looked utterly confused, but when Francis gave him another push, toward the bed, he realized what he was trying to get at.

This bit was more like what Francis remembered. The hurried, clumsy discarding of clothes, the need to feel skin against skin as quickly as possible, as if there was a rush, as if they did not have all the time in the world. Charles was completely hard by the time Francis pushed him down on the bed, climbing on top of him, both of them naked, and Francis was already nearly there. He didn’t know how long he was going to last. He hadn’t realized just how much he missed the feeling of Charles until now.

There was never anything that could have been considered tender between them, and this was no exception. The kisses were verging on frantic, teeth clashing clumsily, lips missing lips, tongues tasting jaw and neck, hips grinding into each other almost painfully hard. Charles pulled Francis’s hair as if he wanted to be rid of the fiery shock, raked his fingers down his spine, making certain to leave his mark. He was getting impatient, he had never been one to take things slowly, but Francis liked this. He liked looking down and seeing Charles under him, wrecked and ruined _because of him_. He knew that Charles would never let it stay this way, though. Sure enough, Charles pushed Francis off of him and covered him with his heat. He leaned down and began kissing Francis’s freckles, kissing his _stars_ , before starting a trail down his chest.

Francis wasn’t sure if five minutes had passed or if it had been hours, but eventually Charles paused from his work. He looked down at Francis, a frown on his face. He hesitated before speaking.

“Is there anything…” Charles trailed off, his voice obscenely thick, hair sticking to his forehead.

“Don’t act like you want to use something, Charles,” Francis breathed, the thrill of the moment already talking its toll on him.

“Alright, I won’t,” he said. He leaned down and kissed Francis’s lips, this time gentler, less greedy, a contrast from what Francis knew was coming.

There was only a brief pause before he felt Charles push into him, wasting no time at all. It was Francis’s turn to leave his mark, digging fingernails into Charles’s back, biting and sucking his neck, his shoulders, any part of him that Francis could reach. Charles gave a savage thrust along with a loud, indecent moan, and Francis knew neither of them would last for long. Their hips worked in opposing time, unable to keep any sort of rhythm between them from the need for friction. This felt new, somehow, and yet it was so utterly the same that it almost scared Francis. But his mind was far away from fear of what this meant at the moment. They had only been going for a matter of minutes, when Charles gave another brutally hard thrust, and Francis was finished. He came with a shout he was certain could be heard in every room around his and Charles followed a few seconds later, burying his head in Francis’s shoulder, moaning in his ear, thrusting wildly. 

They stayed there for a few minutes, laying on each other, breathing deeply, and savoring the feeling of one another. All too quickly the worry started creeping back into Francis’s mind, though. It was a worry he hadn’t felt in years, a worry distinctly related to sleeping with Charles. As if on cue, Charles rolled off of Francis with a deep sigh. Charles’s hand lingered on Francis’s a moment too long to be an accident and Francis knew that he needed to get up, no matter how much he wanted to stay like that.

“You can have the shower first,” Francis said, pulling himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, turning away from Charles. The shower had been running for what felt like hours now, he was certain there would be no hot water left. He took his pack of cigarettes from the bedside table and put one in his mouth. His hand shook as he tried to light it.

“I don’t want to shower. I want to keep the feeling of you on my skin this time,” Charles muttered, his words muffled by the pillow he pressed his face into.

Francis turned around, cigarette still unlit, and looked at him, the wretched beauty, lying there, dark blond hair a mess, sheet draped over his body reminding him remarkably of the Pythian Apollo. Charles looked up at Francis, the same strange innocence written on his face once again.

“Are you going to shower?” he asked.

“Yes. I need to feel clean again,” Francis said, regretting his words as soon as he saw the look on Charles’s face.

“Great, better get to that then,” Charles said, his voice more bitter than Francis had heard it all night. Something about that tone made a creeping sense of panic start to close in on Francis.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, throwing the unlit cigarette back down onto the bedside table.

“It’s fine, I’ve said worse to you before,” he said, his face betraying nothing.

“Are you mad?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“No, you don’t owe me anything, remember?” Charles said, his tone condescending. 

“Are you sure you’re not mad?” he asked again.

“Positive, actually,” Charles said irritably. “Now go take your shower, Francis. The water’s been running for an hour at least.”

Francis took his time in the shower, letting the now cold water run over his skin, giving him goose bumps all along his arms. He could feel the bruises already forming where Charles had held him, dug his fingernails into his skin. Everything was all right, he told himself. This was just what they did, even now after all of these years away. It meant nothing really, it was just fun. But he wasn’t quite convinced that that was what it was this time. Something was different. And he knew that if he had noticed surely Charles had as well. He stood in the shower, not truly paying attention to washing himself. He knew what he wanted now, but his desires never really meant anything when it came to Charles, he knew that much hadn’t changed. Francis dried himself as slowly as he could, wrapping himself in the hotel room robe only after carelessly combing his hair with his fingers. He wanted to give Charles enough time to leave, because that’s what he did.

He was surprised to see Charles still sitting in his bed when he came from the bathroom.

“Still here,” Francis said, keeping his distance from Charles. 

“Yeah, strange how things change, isn’t it?” he said with a slight laugh. He seemed to have sobered up in the short time since Francis had gotten into the shower. Charles looked at him, frowning. “Listen, Francis, I know this was all out of the blue, me appearing at your hotel room, asking you for things that you don’t have to give me anymore, but I think I’ve figured it out now.” 

“You have?” he said slowly.

“I was rather horrible to you, wasn’t I?” he asked, throwing Francis off completely.

“I don’t know if horrible is the right word,” he said, trying to reroute his thoughts. He shook his head. “I understand why you acted like you did, and I don’t blame you for it, I really don’t. We had fun while we still could, it wasn’t anything more than that.”

“But it could have been. We both know it could have been if I hadn’t been so selfish, I see that now. And all I can think about, over and over again, is what if I hadn’t been such a bastard? What if I had stopped looking at myself long enough to care about someone else? What if I had let myself care about you as much as you cared about me?” he said, a note of uncharacteristic desperation to his voice.

“ _What if, what if._ That’s not very stoic of you,” Francis couldn’t help but say.

“I’ve always been more of a hedonist, Francis,” he said with a hint of a smile.

“I’ve noticed,” he said.

“This is beside the point, though. What I’m saying is that all of this time spent trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me, trying to figure out how the hell to fix things, I keep coming back to the time we spent together, I keep remembering how you made me feel, how much you cared for me. And it hit me that I was lying when I told myself that I didn’t care about you. I did, I still do, more than anyone else, I think,” Charles said. Francis swore that he sounded almost excited by his own words.

“So you’ve figured things out for yourself now?” he asked. Time itself seemed to slow down and Francis wondered if he was experiencing one of those moments in history where everything was rushing toward one point, about to collide, and the result would something as catastrophic as the Trojan War, or something as glorious as the Golden Age, but there was really no way to tell if the result was going to help or hurt you.

“Yes. And I can’t be alone, Francis. I need you,” he admitted, and Francis was surprised to see that he was smiling.

“Late is better than never, I suppose,” he said, returning his smile despite himself.

“That’s very true,” Charles said, his smile so full of hope that Francis almost hated himself for what he was going to say next.

“But I don’t need you anymore,” he said, the smile still on his face.

“What?”

“I don’t need you anymore, Charles. Isn’t it strange how that happens? Isn’t it strange how things change so much, how roles reverse?” Francis said, hoping that his words wouldn’t hurt him. That was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Time is funny like that,” Charles muttered with a frown.

There was a pause before Francis spoke again, “When I was in the hospital, after trying to end things in the most stoic way I knew how, Richard told me that I could get by on my own. I didn’t really believe him then, but now, now I realize that he was right. _Heu frustra dilecte puer,_ Charles. _”_

“Narcissus, right? I understand. It was worth a try, though, wasn’t it?” Charles asked, looking up at Francis as if they were talking about some wager they had made and not their lives. He looked tired, the bags under his eyes visible even from his distance.

“I think so,” Francis said. 

Charles hummed in agreement. He let out a great sigh and rose from the bed, starting to collect his clothes. Francis went to the dresser and took his still full glass of wine. It didn’t taste as bad this time. He watched Charles buttoning his shirt up again, fingers nearly as pale as the shirt, and he realized what he wanted.

“You can stay, though.” 

“What?”

“You can stay. You don’t have to leave,” Francis said simply.

“You never were very good at telling jokes,” Charles said raising his eyebrows. He finished buttoning his shirt and attempted to smooth his hair down in vain.

“I’m not joking,” Francis insisted. “You obviously have nowhere to go, and I have no one I have to hide from anymore. Just because I don’t need you doesn’t mean I don’t want you. Surely you know by now that what people need and what people want never really lines up?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Charles said, staring at Francis as if he had never seen something like him before.

“It’ll be nice to have someone around,” he shrugged, trying his hardest to act as if he was unfazed by his own suggestion. It was what he wanted; and it would be nice to have what he wanted for a change.

“Sort of like being out in the country again. Almost unreal, far away from everything, secluded, intimate, just us,” he said, a smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah, sort of like that, but in a cheap hotel room rather than a country house,” Francis said. He could feel the smile curling around his ears.

“Right. It’s better than nothing, though,” Charles said. He looked at him with an uncharacteristically shy fondness that made Francis think that perhaps this would be good for both of them.

“Well,” Francis said, making a show of setting his glass of wine back down again, “Take your shirt off again, then.”

“Why, exactly?”

“ _Cubitum eamus_?” he asked, not even bothering to hide his smile. As soon as the words left his lips, Charles started unbuttoning his shirt again without question.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard those words from you, Francis,” Charles said, his voice deep and inviting. He came toward Francis letting his shirt hang open, prepared for whatever he wanted. He stopped in front of him, and untied the knot keeping Francis’s robe closed. “I missed it.”

And Charles kissed him, this time gently, putting into the kiss every word that he was too proud to say. Francis thought that if this was the way he wanted to explain himself, he couldn’t really complain.

He probably should have let Charles go, let him leave again, maybe never to come back, but he couldn’t. Despite everything telling him not to allow it, he still cared about him, even if they weren’t quite the same sort of feelings he had had for him years ago. Yet he couldn’t seem to make himself care much about the danger of disappointment again. This was nice, as strange as it was, and Francis realized, with some surprise, that he might even be happy.

 


End file.
